


Sock Buddies

by WaldosAkimbo



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Domestic, Fluff, IT Chapter Two Fix-It, M/M, Rated T for Trashmouth, Reddie, Socks, ethel the pomeranian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-18
Updated: 2019-10-18
Packaged: 2020-12-22 20:17:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21082484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WaldosAkimbo/pseuds/WaldosAkimbo
Summary: Eddie needs a new pair of socks and Richie takes him out shopping.





	Sock Buddies

Neither of them really does anything on purpose anymore. They have _routines_ and _schedules_ and _deeply ingrained phobias _and _murder clown traumas_ and _physical therapy_, but they don’t, like, stick to a script. They’re cool. Richie thinks they’re very cool. His announcement of being very cool earns him a smack and a “dork” nine times out of ten.

Even the simple task of taking a shower, right? Harmless. Not set in stone of when or where, even though “when” is usually in the morning and “where” is usually the bathroom. Sometimes it’s the kitchen sink. Sometimes it’s the gym. Sometimes it’s kisses instead of water.

Eddie steps out of the bathroom, half-dressed, taking a towel to task on some of the shaving cream trapped in his dimples. The very same that Richie lightly tongued before he went into said shower because it annoyed the man and it was funny. Richie would make fun of him now. He would. He should, but he’s sitting at the kitchen counter, playing tug-o-war with Ethel, their pampered and perfect Pomeranian. When he finally looks up, he doesn’t even spot the washcloth or Eddie’s towel-tussled hair. He hones in on something almost too good to ridicule.

It’s hard _not_ to resurrect an old vine for the sake of the moment – Richie enjoyed a brief stint as a “vine celebrity” with a series of rapid-fire shots of him in increasingly inappropriate locales where he announced “fuckedyermom” as fast and as deadpan as he could, with a nice self-congratulatory-high-five. It was not original. It was not good. People are, in his opinion, as dumb and as childish as he is. So, instant success.

Anyways, point still stands, your Honor, that Richie _needs_, without a shred of doubt, to leap off the chair and over Ethel just so he can clap his hands together and brandish them at Eddie’s feet and bellow out “what are _thoooooooooooose_!”

It’s startling, sure. Eddie stops and puts a hand to his chest, the housewife clutching pearls, and freezes on the spot. Course he does. Those socks have little rubber grippies on them. He could probably stop on glass. On ice!

Eddie on Ice, coming to your town today!

Richie blinks when Eddie’s towel is dumped on his head, a nonverbal _beep-beep_.

“What the fuck, Rich?” His words are still laced with a touch of exhaustion that makes Richie too soft and too close, yanking the towel off his head just so he can wrap an arm around Eddie and guide him over into the kitchen.

“Those ugly things on your feet.”

Eddie leans into Richie’s touch, but hooks his sharp eyebrows together and glances down.

“They’re socks, asshole.”

“Yeah!” They’re back to the kitchen island and Eddie lets Richie move him to the chair, still warm from Richie sitting in it. He laughs, nudging Ethel, who is jumping at Eddie’s calves. “Sure. Old lady socks, maybe. Did you need me to get your walker?”

Half a joke, considering Eddie had been walking with a cane up until last week. Murderous alien monster clowns really can do a number on a guy. Richie has new glasses. Eddie has a fucking impressive scar down his chest. Tomato, tomato.

Still, even with the jibe, Eddie shoves his firm fingers into Richie’s chest. Five bony pokers digging into his pecs. Even pain is welcome, if it’s from his Eddie, really. And, yes, he could talk to Dr. Helms about it, but Richie is still giddy and fluttery that Eddie is _there_. He’s _alive_. He’s _tangible _and _close _and smells like his _shaving cream _and _toothpaste _and—

Eddie yanks on Richie’s burnt orange polo to press the thin white scar on his cheek to Richie’s stubble. Fast. Purposeful. Richie goes all hot from head to toe, ready to pop like a tea kettle. Hell, his glasses are fogging.

“Fuck you,” Eddie mutters directly into his ear, but it’s as soft and gentle a sound as a good morning kiss and Richie rubs the spot behind Eddie’s ear, still damp from his shower.

“I mean…usually you’re s’posed to shower _afterwards_, but I bet a rim job’s a lot—”

Eddie chuckles. It’s better than pulling out some Gary Glitter for that pretentious record player they had set up in the living room – Richie insisted on keeping it, despite the known faulty hinge on the bottom cabinet with the sharp corner that has proven a danger to Ethel. Eddie taped it shut after two days, demanding they call someone to fix it. That was weeks ago. They got distracted. Richie ensures they stay distracted as often as possible.

“You’re too much.”

“Am I? My agent says I don’t have enough of that, y’know, that ‘Jim Carrey’ charm.”

“Fuck him.”

“Carrey or Gary?”

“God, both,” Eddie answers, chuckling again. He keeps his fist bunched around Richie’s shirt, like they’re both too afraid to become unmoored, sucked away, some other insane bullshit. They’ve been through the Olympic-sized Ringer on the bullshit category. Richie doesn’t mind the clinging. He does some of his own by holding Eddie’s wrist and still rubbing that spot behind his ear. Eddie’s eyes track between Richie’s, left and right and left and right, before he closes them. “What were we talking about?”

“Gary, my agent?”

“No, you were making fun of me.”

“I sure was.” Richie plants a platonic—not platonic, romantic as _shit_—kiss to his forehead. “I was saying you’ve got the dumbest socks I’ve ever seen.”

Eddie’s frown is frail, almost genuine. Richie almost takes it back. He’d never make fun of Eddie ever again. Never ever, ever, dear God, blood oath and all, ever again! Richie’s hand migrates, becomes solid on Eddie’s neck, cupping his jaw.

“I didn’t think to pack any,” Eddie finally says.

Yeah, they don’t really talk about how the rest of the Losers did a solid, driving up to get the stuff out of Myra’s and taking what they could. The divorce barely made it through and there’s shit to deal with yet, but that requires scheduling and, like, adults who are responsible. Richie’s scarcely got it together enough to go get groceries.

He _gets grocieries_. He’d use a service to get it sent to the house, but he doesn’t. He goes out and gets them and remembers all the favorites and all the supposed allergies Eddie thinks he has and everything. Look, it’s a bad analogy. But the sentiment still stands!

“I mean, I got them from the hospital, so….”

The conversation dies instantly. Again.

Eddie hates talking about it. A 27-year-long streak of amnesia has few merits, but one of them is wiping out all the soul-soaked terror of being forced into a hospital by a hypochondriac mother. Better yet when it does a perfect Etch-a-sketch shake on That Fucking Clown breaking his arm.

Or sending Bowers after them.

Or stabbing him in the chest.

Or almost, almost, _almost_ killing—

Richie perks up, hiding the visceral flinch from the memory of nearly being dragged away before they could scoop up Eddie out of the rubble. He’s sure he’d die there. He’s sure he’d be forced out of Niebolt house, fighting tooth and nail, and a piece of him would get buried under the broken chaos of the implosion, if they had forgotten Eddie on the rocks. He doesn’t want to think about it. He sometimes has to, but that’s in Dr. Helms’ office and this is home where it is warm and safe, and Ethel is pressing little paws into his ankle and demanding attention.

“Listen!” He smiles, too bright, too happy, too obvious that he’s thirteen seconds away from panic. He shoves up his glasses and bends to scoop up Ethel, bouncing her, petting her, hiding his fears in her fur. “Listen, we’ll go to the mall, right! Fuck it. Let’s go get you some, like, proper socks. We’ll go to that little boutique place?”

“The one with the crotchless mannequins in the windows?”

“No, the one over by the arcaaaaaade.” The word tastes ugly in his mouth, for reasons Richie is forever going to not give a shit about, except the exact opposite of that. Eddie recovers in his stead.

“The one with the little kitschy knick-knack store right next to it?”

“That smells like cinnamon pretzels,” they say in unison. It’s stupid and wonderful and they laugh, pressed against their dog, who barks happily from the affection like the spoiled princess she is.

Since moving to LA, Richie bought and sold a few expensive cars that he rarely took out of the garage. Now, moving all the way across the US to get away with his—oh god, boyfriend? partner? _fiancé? _Listen, let’s not rush things here; he definitely has a ring in the top drawer of the dresser, but nobody is saying anything because, holy shit, _feelings_—Eddie, he doesn’t have a car. Eddie drove, but he’s in no condition to do it now, so they opt to take a Lyft. Lyft, obviously, over Uber, because Eddie knew the statistics on both and trusts the former over the latter.

“—the safety reports myself, you know, so I—”

“Thanks, buddy,” Richie interjects, giving a sympathetic look to the driver as they hop out. He sends him five stars and an inflated tip. Least he could do as they maneuver up onto the sidewalk.

A retractable cane is surreptitiously folded up in Richie’s bag, which he has hanging across his chest, along with an inhaler, wallets, keys, water bottle, pretzel rods, and several pain relievers, just in case. Believe it or not, severe lung trauma really did a number on Eddie that he had a need for an actual goddamn inhaler. The universe is funny that way. Even funnier that Richie feels like a walking fanny pack. He says he doesn’t mind. He sounds like he does, but, in reality, this one or otherwise, he actually doesn’t.

“I think you were probably right,” Eddie says, hiding his hands away from his pockets.

Richie staggers like he’s been knocked aside by a wrecking ball, clutching his heart, putting on the whole song and dance. Eddie laughs, reaching out to steady him.

“Doth mine own ears deceive me?” Richie asks in one of his more uncommonly annoying Voices. “Lord Edward admits to my competence?”

“Don’t let it to go to your head.”

“Too late.”

Richie beams, and lets his own hand worm its way into Eddie’s pocket, their fingers entwined. There is the safety of home between them, with the pockets, with the bag, with their shoulders pressed together like they’re being blown down by a mighty wind or the angry shadow of the harmless arcade to the left.

“But, uh, elaborate there, Eds. Let ‘er rip.”

“Don’t call me that,” Eddie says automatically, stretching his neck up to look at the bruised autumn sky. “No, I just mean…you’re right.”

“Yes. Absolutely.” Richie bobs his head but keeps his shoulder still so Eddie will continue walking next to him, hand secretly in hand. “Go on.”

“These socks _suck_, man.”

There’s a perfect little beat of silence before Richie laughs, tossing his head back in manic delight.

“I knew it!”

“What? They do! They do!” Eddie chases Richie’s chin with his eyes, silently begging him to walk closer, calmer, to shut the fuck up for a moment. “They’re bunched all weird in the toes right now.”

“The bumpies.”

“The _bumpies!_” Eddie agrees enthusiastically and then shakes his head. “Rubber grips.” He’s chastising himself for getting caught up in the euphoria of Richie being a dumbass. “God, they’re the worst.”

“I told you this was a good idea.”

Richie pulls away just enough to half-skip to the door, holding it open with a little bow for Eddie to walk through.

Sock Buddies has been open long enough that they need big signs with “75% SALES NOW” in neon yellow and orange print carpeting the front windows. Time will tell if the sales will be kind to them, but they take advantage of what’s available in the now.

The place smells warm and a little like plastic mixed in with the overpowering smell from the knick-knack store next door. Bright banks of white light keep the place in a vibrant glow, highlighting socks on walls, socks on mannequin feet, socks on mannequin hands oddly enough, socks on rotating metal displays and on metal peg boards on all the walls. Richie immediately picks up one of the hands with delicate fishnets covering the hard-plastic flanges.

“Apparently I _am _taking you to the fetish shop.”

Eddie taps the back of the hand, which gently slaps Richie’s cheek. He’s shocked, gasping, floundering like a dandy.

“A duel? Sir, my very honor!”

“Went out the window about thirty years ago.”

“You’re mistaking honor with virginity again, sweetheart, I—”

Eddie pinches Richie’s chin and wags it back and forth. It says _don’t embarrass me_. It says _beep beep_. It says _I love you, you fucking moron._

Richie tucks the hand under his arm, an impromptu prop for their selection purposes.

They bypass the superhero knee-highs and the leg warmers with the lace on top that probably look cute in boots or something, what do they know? They know it’s not what they’re looking for. There’s presidential socks. There’s Van Gough and Monet socks. There’s weed socks.

“Aw, sweet! Ninja turtles!” Richie snags a pair and lays them across the mannequin’s palm, looking at all the Turts together, slinging pizza in every direction. He can’t help the soft little smile, the fondness at the cartoon images. “Turtles, man,” he adds lamely.

“Then get them,” Eddie says near another rack.

“Yeah….” Richie squeezes the feet together, bouncing them a little, weighing out some vital cosmic problem or something, and is about to hang them back up when he hears Eddie choke. Richie drops the socks first, brandishing the hand up high like a club, and swings around to the cramped aisle where Eddie is doubled over. “Eddie!”

First, it’s the fishnet mannequin hand on his back, before Richie remembers he’s even holding it. He stares, offended at the object, and half drops it on the display next to him before he slides himself around Eddie to help him back up.

Except it’s not an asthma attack. It takes a moment for the black fringe of fear to recede from the corner of Richie’s eyes. A moment more to see those are not sad tears and that mouth isn’t open in a wail of agony.

Eddie’s doubled-over in hysterical laughter.

“I swear to god, you start talking, Kasparak, or I’m calling the police.” Richie still clings to him, rubbing a small circle across the dull mustard color of his sweater trapped in a dull black jacket. His other hand has already snuck away into the bag at his side, gripping the inhaler. “What? What’s so funny?”

Eddie can’t form words, it seems. He forces himself to stand and finally, _finally_ brandishes the socks he’s been holding tight in his hands, slightly stretching the cartoonish face stamped on the ankle.

“No fucking way.” Richie lets go of the inhaler and tugs the toes of the socks closer. He’s squinting through his glasses, like the whole thing is a mirage. “No _fucking _way!” he repeats, louder, faster. “_Why?_”

They’re Richie Tozier socks, with his annoying catch phrase printed over a bad likeness of himself from that stand up that got broadcast to Netflix. He’s nestled right in with John Mulaney, Ali Wong, and a decent Robin Williams caricature, all of them sitting under a “Funny Toe Jams” sign, which Richie instantly hates like he hates the image they used on those stupid goddamn socks.

“They got my hair weird,” Richie says, just to cut into Eddie laughing at him.

“I’m getting them.”

“The hell you are.”

“I have to!” Eddie laughs again, pulling them close to look down at Sock-Richie, then up at Human-Richie. “They’re so stupid, I have to.”

“Don’t. Please. I’m begging you.” Richie clasps his hands together, all the mimes of a desperate despot pleading their case.

“I have to,” Eddie says a third time, shrugging his shoulders in a _what else can I do?_ sorta gesture. He’s still smiling and looking down at the socks the same way Richie was looking at the ninja turtles earlier. How’s Richie supposed to say no to a face like that, huh?

It doesn’t matter. He’ll check with his agent if he’s getting royalties off that or not. The socks pay for themselves.

They also pay for a pair of Pomeranian Puppy prints, and a wad of plain black socks they found stuck in the back of the shop along with the other “boring” flavors of footwear. Richie touches as many prints as he can, a simple tactile experience while Eddie debates if he wants low ankle, medium ankle, no ankle, yadda yadda yadda. Richie gives him time and space to debate. It’s a big deal! Socks together. That’s straight up domestic as shit.

Richie stops on a pair of tube socks with the red bands over the top and pulls them down, holding them up to Eddie with his own puppy-dog eyes. Eddie smirks, still debating two packs in hand.

“Why?” he finally asks.

“You used to wear these every single day.”

“So?”

“Please?” Richie asks, sidling up to him, tucking in to rest their cheeks together. Eddie chuckles and turns his face away, probably because Richie’s stubble is irritating his skin.

“Why?” he asks again. “Is this some kinda kink thing with you?”

“No way,” Richie answers a little too quickly, even if it truly is fueled by good ol’ childhood nostalgia, which is a rare form for the Losers. He’s gotta take it wherever he can find it. “Where’s my fishnet hand?”

“Yeah, I don’t think you were supposed to touch the displays.”

“Oh, whatever. They have my face on socks, man, they’re not gonna kick us out.”

“Really? Gonna pull the celebrity card now?”

“My face. Is on. Those socks!” Richie almost yanks them out of Eddie’s hand, but the little bastard is quick and he holds them up, like they’re supposed to be out of reach or something.

“Ah, still taking them home.”

“You’re a tyrant,” Richie says, but he’s grinning too much for it to mean anything. He turns away, then takes the tube socks again and holds them up, bouncing them a little from side to side like a teddy-bear to a child. Eddie sighs, sags his shoulders, and nods. “Yeah?”

“Yeah, alright, those too. I mean, anything so I don’t have to wear these hospital socks anymore.”

“See? Practical _and _horny.”

“I knew it!” Eddie slaps Richie’s chest, but he grabs his hand and slides their fingers together, back between them, back to the safety of each other. “You’re the worst.”

“Probably. You ready, Eddie Spaghetti?”

They take their haul up to the counter where a bored looking teenager does their best to tear their eyes away from a cell phone obviously hidden beneath the counter. Richie would never call them out on it, but he can see Eddie prepping to say something, simply because the kid isn’t doing his job and probably something about safety violations. The man is a walking buzzkill without any of the mean spite behind it. He’s Anxiety Incarnate. So is Richie, in his own fucked up way. So’s the rest of them, who cares, who cares, who—

“Whoa.” The kid holds up the socks after he rung them up and was doing a quick glance, back and forth, between the socks and Richie. “This kinda looks like you.”

“I get told I’m a walking tube sock all the time,” Richie says with a little laugh, already pulling out his wallet.

It’s clear that the kid wants to press it, but, truly, the caricature is shit and Richie is just some guy out and about with his best friend/love of his fucking life. And, lucky him, he dresses like seven different eras just vomited on his clothes when he doesn’t have a stylist harping on him to pick _a color scheme_ and _one pattern_. He doesn’t even need sunglasses to hide himself. Just enough plausible deniability that the kid continues scanning the socks and gives them such a damn deal with the sales going on that they feel like they’ve robbed the place.

The paper bag is folded up and crammed into Richie’s bag. They make a little room by fetching Eddie’s cane, since they decide to walk the mall a bit and he’s getting winded. There’s a short pitstop at the restroom and Eddie disappears long enough that Richie gets worried, but he comes back out and smiles. Richie’s about to ask him if he fell in when Eddie tugs on one of his pant legs and raises an eyebrow. A stupid piss joke comes to mind now, but Richie glances down to see the white tube sock disappearing up towards Eddie’s knee. He doesn’t even know _why_ he blushes, but he loves Eddie so much, it seems alright to let themselves enjoy the little things.

“I knew it was a kink, you sick sonovab—”

Richie steals Eddie’s hand, snatching it away from his pant leg, and kisses his knuckles. It’s stupid and soft and sweet and Eddie melts when Richie rubs his thumb across the back of his hand. He tilts his head towards the exit.

“C’mon,” says Richie. “Let’s go home.”

“Y…yeah?”

“Yeah.”

They stay side-by-side, hand-in-hand, past the busy food court and the brightly-lit arcade with a giant neon turtle grinning down at them. Eddie still agrees, the walk is much better without those stupid sock bumpies. But it will be even better when they get home and he can take off his shoes and Richie will put Eddie’s feet in his lap, Ethel falling asleep on Eddie’s chest. Richie will hold Eddie’s toes while they watch old cartoons together, knowing instead of just pretending that it’s alright. It’s alright.


End file.
